


Authoritative Castigation

by Chips_And_Onions



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Abuse of Authority, Abusive Relationships, Addiction, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blackmail, Boss/Employee Relationship, Crowley Was Not Raphael Before Falling (Good Omens), Dom Gabriel, Dubious Consent, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Eventual Smut, Extremely Dubious Consent, Gabriel has anger issues, Gen, Graphic Description, Healthy Relationships, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Internalized Demonism, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Other, Physical Abuse, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sad with a Happy Ending, She/Her Pronouns for Michael (Good Omens), Slowly Rising Abuse, They/Them Pronouns for Beelzebub (Good Omens), Victim Blaming, What Have I Done
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:00:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28295697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chips_And_Onions/pseuds/Chips_And_Onions
Summary: With tensions rising slowly as the date of Armageddon nears, a certain Archangel makes a startling, strange discovery.Aziraphale had been in a relationship with a certain demon named Crowley, the principality choosing to consort with the enemy. Was this an accident? Was this some sick game the demon was choosing to play? No, no, it didn't matter, what mattered now was Aziraphale fell into it, like some bumbling imbecile. He could never count on him to stand his ground like he expected him to. The matter needed to be resolved.And, Gabriel was rightfully pissed.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale & Gabriel (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Gabriel (Good Omens), Beelzebub/Gabriel (Good Omens), Beelzebub/Michael (Good Omens), Crowley & Gabriel (Good Omens)
Comments: 13
Kudos: 59
Collections: The Repossessed Server Prompts





	1. Angel Cake

**Author's Note:**

> Lightly inspired by [ dreamsofspike's](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamsofspike/pseuds/dreamsofspike) [ Repossession ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19710115/chapters/46645777)

“Aziraphale. Shut the door.” 

The principality closed it gently, twisting the lock, feeling a bundle of overwhelmingly conflicting feelings swirling inside of him like a whirlpool. He carried his light, polite smile, but the heavy look on his face overshadowed it, his usual cheerful crinkles never meeting his eyes. 

The glistening white walls of heaven felt comfortable for him, the smudge-less beautiful windows revealing the clear white sky outside revealing a place he wasn’t ashamed to call home. This was a place where he spent most of his time before Eden when he was first made, familiar with the lightest scratches on the walls.

In contrast, this office felt like the antithesis of that.

It bore the same feeling of coming home to find they had replaced all your furniture with a nearly identical copy. It was unnerving. The glistening marble floor, which Aziraphale once found _lovely_ , now felt tainted with some imaginary disease as he stepped towards Gabriel’s desk. Someone was _trying_ to seem human, and it reeked of it. His shiny, well-made white wooden desk looked so unbelievably _perfect_ that it stripped away everything natural about it _._ His bookshelves behind him held various unnamed books, papers, and pamphlets, something Aziraphale _knew_ he rarely ever touched. His neat, organized, polished office gave off something similar to some _angelic_ version of the Uncanny Valley. 

His office would be bearable, yes, if Aziraphale didn’t know on some cosmic level that Gabriel _knew_ something. He knew something, which made him call him _here._

That thought alone made him feel unbelievably claustrophobic in the messenger’s overwhelmingly large, echoing office.

“Why the long face?” The Archangel spun around to face him in his obnoxiously expensive leather chair, visibly disinterested as he held his head up with his palm. 

The angel tried a polite smile, the expression now feeling like a foreign object on his lips.

“I… was baking,” Aziraphale explained quietly, with a fading saddened grin, “I was baking a cake. I’m rather worried that it’ll get burned at this rate.” He was fond of the cake too. It was a good batch. 

Aziraphale eyes were glued to an object on his boss’s desk, some invisible force directing all of his attention towards that small gorgeous fountain pen. Every square inch of his body redirected him away from the Archangel in front of him, two negative charges clashing, warded off from one another. 

Gabriel raised an eyebrow without saying a word, looking him over in a way that made the principality feel completely exposed, visibly not amused or by any means sympathetic, his face unchanging like he bore a mask, stiff and expressionless.

The dense, awkward silence compelled Aziraphale.

“... It’s a... human food-”

“I know what _cake_ is, sunshine.” The wide forced smile paired with the low tone led to the angel hastily averting his eyes, saying the word bitterly as if just _thinking_ about it made him feel physically _sick_.

Aziraphale felt him shy away from Gabriel as his boss sharply leaned towards him, repelled from the Archangel’s presence. 

“I don’t get why you create... _digestible organic matter._ That stuff’s supposed to be for humans. You might as well eat _dirt._ Do they still do that? Eat dirt?” 

“In some cultures they-”

“Of course they do. _Humans._ ” Laughing, the subtle annoyance in his expression not once fading, he straightened a stack of papers, rustling, leaning back in his plush chair as he set it to his side. 

Aziraphale grimaced, feeling his throat close up as he looked down, the twinge of visible shame spreading across his cheeks, his knuckles white, fingers interlacing tightly at his front. 

Gabriel shot a look at him, tilting his head, before absentmindedly gesturing to the chair in front of his desk, glancing away from him, turning his gaze back to his fingers. 

“... Why are you standing? Sit.” 

Aziraphale stiffly obliged, shuffling to the edge of his cushioned seat, as if the weighty, expensive leather stung to sit on. 

“... I’m confused as to... _exactly_ _why_ you called me. You never really... call me to your office unless there’s something important going on.” He looked up at him uneasily, struggling to keep his weary smile intact. His finger tapped rhythmically against the edge of his armrest, his eyes finally meeting Gabriel’s. “Is there something wrong?”

_“Obviously.”_

The angel’s brittle smile _dropped_ at the complete lack of hesitation. 

He trifled through his drawer as Aziraphale tried subtly to peek over with the curiosity of a clueless child, attempting to look at what he was fiddling with. 

“What am I? An idiot? Believe me, I wouldn’t call you here otherwise-” His fingers halted, smirking to himself with a Cheshire grin, as he slowly lifted a single shiny Polaroid photo from the dark depths of his desk.

Aziraphale stilled in his seat, like a statue caught moving, sitting back down in slow motion, as Gabriel’s eyes calmly darted between the principality and the photo between his fingers. 

“...What… do you need?” He whispered.

“So... Aziraphale, I just _gotta_ know.” His chair creaked as he leaned forward, his elbows placed soundly on his desk. The image was loose in his fingers. 

“...What’s your relationship with _Crawley?”_

Out of all the horrible things to come out of his mouth. 

Those were the worst five words he’s _ever_ heard.

His blood ran cold, his sky eyes wide, caught off-guard by the sudden question. His breath staggered unnecessarily for a second, the air rapidly kicked out of him at the speed of light. A torrent of intrusive worst-case-scenario what-ifs swelled and blended in him faster than he could even blink, his nails clawing at the ends of the leather on his armrests like he was trying to climb his way up a cliff, knowing full well that his chances of survival were slim. 

Gabriel’s glowing violet hawk eyes were pinned on him, digesting every little quiver and twitch in an apathetic display of _dominance,_ something the angel knew he was fond of _._

He wasn’t used to Gabriel diverting this much of his full attention towards him. 

And he didn’t enjoy it.

Aziraphale wasn’t paying attention to him right now, his mind so far deep within itself, as if it were a sinkhole, that he barely noticed his fingers quaking. There was a terrifying and _genuine prospect_ that some parts of heaven’s head office already _knew._ How long did they know? He and Crowley did their best to cover their tracks respectively. 

Did they not do enough? 

Were they not safe? 

Were… they getting to him right now…?

“...I…” He forced out, slowly, oddly steady, voice dry and coarse. His vocal cords ground tightly against one another. There was a war being fought in his throat, the esophagus walls closing in, intelligible words struggling to squeeze out amongst the painful conflict. “...Oh, I’m... so _very_ sorry. I don’t have a clue of whom you speak of-”

“Shut the _fuck_ up.” 

His stone-cold amethyst pupils burrowed beneath Aziraphale’s skin, all the grating jovialness and forced social niceties wiped from his expression. 

Aziraphale found his jaw involuntarily shut, any comprehensive thought utterly crushed under the messenger’s heel, ground to oblivion with his scrutinizing gaze. 

“The _audacity_ to lie to an _Archangel._ Seriously? I mean, come on, at least be _good_ at it, if you’re going to try. I don’t need _Uriel_ to know that wasn’t the truth,” he deadpanned, with a quiet pitiless chuckle. 

“...I don’t-”

“You don’t what?” The room was thick and suffocating, leaving the air with the consistency of molasses. “You don’t _know?_ For heaven’s sake, Aziraphale. You’ve been on earth for _six millennia,_ and you expect me to believe _somehow_ that you _‘don’t know’_ a demon who’s been there since the beginning? You guys had to meet at _some_ point, right?”

_‘Yes, but frankly it’s none of your business.’_ His mind formed the words, mimicking a dash of Crowley’s tone, but no sound wanted to carry them. 

... Frankly, he didn’t either.

Gabriel stared at him flatly, fanning the Polaroid loosely, holding it like it was a fragile flower, blown to dust by the wind. 

He, without warning, flicked it on the table, with a bit of a dramatic flair, skating across the wood, the image impressively perfectly angled towards him. 

“So, if for _some_ reason I’m wrong, and you two _never_ met-” he jabbed a finger into the photo, sliding it smoothly in the angel’s direction- “I’d _love_ for you to explain this.” 

Aziraphale’s eyes reluctantly hovered over the image, casting doubtful glances to the looming figure on the other side of the table, as if the snapshot burned his eyes to look at. 

Some small voice murmured dark whispers, instilling a prey-like instinct in him to _run._ Whatever was on the photo, it wouldn’t be good, the principality at least knew that. 

The image felt infectious, like it’d spread an imaginary version of sticky tar on his clean fingers if he gazed into it. He wanted, no... He _needed_ to explain. This was all a misunderstanding. 

“... May I-”

“Just _look,_ Aziraphale,” he grunted with an exasperated groan.

The angel held his tongue instantaneously, gently biting on it, an anxious habit he developed from his time on earth. 

Commanded by his innate angelic desire to please his superiors, his eyes flickered to the photo at hand, not exactly sure what to expect, the fear like a weighty black cloud hovering above him. 

He leaned over the table, his own shadow obscuring the ethereal gleam of light reflecting off the Polaroid. 

At first, he wasn’t sure exactly what he was looking at, the apprehension quickly melting into incertitude. 

The setting was blurry, as if the cameraman was unaware of how to hold the device properly. Various shades of tans and dark browns stirred together, like messy strokes of paint from a toddler, a cauldron of horrible photography. He lingered on the picture, taking in all the details, trying his best to process what exactly Gabriel wanted him to look at. 

Before the realization hit him. 

They took this image through a window of his bookshop. 

He felt a light startled gasp leave his lips, now unable to keep his eyes off the photo as the two figures in the centerpiece, which he now swiftly recognized as him and Crowley, were _kissing._

Lips passionately locked together like the world would fall apart if they didn’t, his hands protectively wrapped in the serpent’s soft divine auburn hair.

Someone caught them _kissing._

His expression was aghast, a wide-eyed stare stuck on his face as his head refused to turn to Gabriel sitting in front of him, every bit of hope draining from his eyes like a whirlpool of emotions as if someone pulled the plug from a bathtub. Tightly clenched, his mouth felt as if it’d tightly sewn together, and it forced him to remind himself to breathe. 

His finger tapped against the leather armrest like a broken, mechanical clock, counting the seconds down to his doomsday. 

Gabriel leaned forward, an ear turned towards him like he expected Aziraphale’s words to spill out of him, but silence greeted him instead _._

Dreadful, dastardly silence. 

_“So?_ What is it?” The impatience rose in the Archangel, his broad shoulders hard, bending towards him. “I’m giving you a _chance_ to _explain._ Be _grateful._ If it was Michael, they would’ve _incinerated_ you by now. Did it tempt you? Did it _force_ you?” 

Aziraphale shook his head rapidly, a franticness he didn’t bother to conceal, pushing out the only cohesive words he could muster, his hands violently trembling as if it could barely hold itself together while he ran his fingers through his hair. Hushed breaths bursting in and out through his nose, he flashed an _‘I’m perfectly fine’_ expression, looking more plastic than a doll’s.

“No- _No-_ I- well, we- I just...” His hands twirled around each other, dancing, each movement jagged and adrenaline-filled.

Aziraphale admired his lack of ability to deceive, considering it angelic, keeping up his integrity as an angel should. 

This wasn’t one of those times. 

“You just _what?”_

Aziraphale swallowed, praying silently. The Archangel wasn’t one of the most _understanding_ angels in heaven.

“... There’s a… _a long term_ emotional association between the two of us that could be… speculated as _romantic_ …” He started slowly, gauging Gabriel’s reaction from as far as he could press himself into his chair. 

The Archangel’s expression grew dark, an uncaring booming storm cloud behind his eyes, obscuring Aziraphale’s view on his thoughts on the subject.

The tangible quiet urged him to continue, preferring him to fill in the blankness with an endless stream of senseless noise. 

“...Which- Which involve regular _physical altercations_ that are used to display… _affection-”_ he haltingly tapped on the picture- “... Like this example-”

“So you’re fucking a _demon?”_ Gabriel’s low voice came out, very nearly, as a throaty, rumbling growl, his head resting contemplatively on intertwined fists. 

The angel’s mouth hung open, any clear words kicked out of him, leaving him in an instant, as the suggestion made him appalled.

“Goodness, _no!-”_

“Because that’s what it _SOUNDS LIKE!”_

His palms thrown onto his desk, causing a tidal wave of sheer force to ripple through the wood, the office supplies jumped into the air as if they could fly. 

Aziraphale jolted backward, an invisible gust of wind blowing him back, holding his hands defensively in front of his face like he expected a strike. 

“It _SOUNDS_ like you have a little _demon_ boyfriend. Do you even _KNOW_ the trouble I could be in if someone found out an _ANGEL_ from _MY_ division is fucking around with a _FALLEN?!_ It would _ruin_ my reputation, Aziraphale! I even gave you a chance to explain yourself! To _lie!_ But _no,_ you screw _EVERYTHING_ up, you intolerable, idiotic, piece of human _garbage._ I can’t _rely_ on you.” 

_“I’m sorry-”_

“DON’T you _dare_ apologize.” 

His words sounded more venomous than anything the Serpent of Eden ever spoke. 

Gabriel shot up from his seat as if he were a mannequin puppeted by strings, hoisting Aziraphale from his chair by the shoulders, dragging him with an uncomfortably tight grip, as if the angel was a plush toy made for a ravenous dog. 

The principality felt a possum-like limpness flow through him, the dread spreading across his white ghastly face as the Archangel _slammed_ him against the wall. 

“You’re an _EMBARRASSMENT_ to our kind. You don’t _get_ to apologize, _sunshine,_ that stuff’s reserved for the _good guys._ Associating with a _demon._ It’s a miracle you haven’t _fallen_ yet, but I guess I should start filing the papers because you’re _going to._ You didn’t even _try_ to cover it up. Seriously, it’s like you _WANTED_ to be caught.”[1]

Aziraphale stared wide-eyed to the side, wordless.

“And that _demon._ That _demon._ Is it even worth _falling_ for? Risking abandoning _everything_ for, just because what? Did it buy you a few _human foods?_ Please, I’m sure that thing’s _tempting_ you because it figured out how _gullible_ you are.” 

Aziraphale winced, stung by the comment, avoiding his boss’ deadly gaze, not willing to look into the roaring wildfire behind his deadly deep blueberry eyes. 

Though, the hurt expression slowly hardened to a challenging, steady but clearly apprehensive gaze upwards, as he digested Gabriel’s words like gum, involuntarily sticking to him without his want. 

Crowley _was_ worth falling for. 

He didn’t even _know._

“...He’s not an _it.”_ His voice was in direct contrast to Gabriel’s, temperate, though he felt anything but, his quiet words brewing something damnable under his tone.

A steadfast boat at a stormy sea, he stood his ground, rooting his feet to the ground like a thickened oak tree, standing tall for the first time as he stepped into his office. 

And, for the first time, Gabriel shut up, staring at Aziraphale for a long, agonizing millisecond like a deer in headlights, slightly taken aback, his vibrant violet eyes wide and satisfactory only surprised. 

He’d given anything for that millisecond to last longer, so he’d have time to prepare for the wonderful consequences of talking back. Something he hasn’t done since Eden. 

“WELL. What is it then? Because I for one would _really_ like to know. I’d just _love_ to hear it. I’m pretty sure _all of heaven_ would like to hear what you have to say, huh, Aziraphale? Then, maybe your little _demon friend_ will learn to keep his tongue in his mouth-”

“It’s… It’s NOT his fault!” 

He paused. 

“...I forced him into the relationship. He wasn’t willing to take part, so I used... tactical manipulation to coerce him into the acts.”

Miracles occurred in one of two ways. By snapping your fingers and what-not, and, in this case, pure unfiltered luck. 

Within a second, Aziraphale told one of the most convincing lies an obedient lowest-order principality could tell, rolling right off his tongue like butter, his face straight as a wooden plank, the anxiety dissipating in his expression with a wave of a wand, like salt in water. 

They say love can make you do terrible things. 

Here, the warm omniscient feeling of love, present everywhere in variable amounts like the lord _,_ drove him to lose his integrity directly in front of his main supervisor. 

If Crowley was trying to corrupt Aziraphale, he would consider it a success. 

If Aziraphale didn’t infect him somehow in return.

Gabriel’s face fell, revealing the searing fiery rage bubbling beneath his skin, as if the carefully crafted mask strapped on his face lost its stabilizers, showing a foreign monster underneath. Aziraphale was familiar with his boss’s anger at his incompetence. In fact, he was oddly comfortable with it at this point. This anger was different. Dangerous.[2]

“You’re _DISGUSTING!”_ Hissing, he _shoved_ Aziraphale against the wall with the force of a gunshot. 

What cut deeper than the insult itself was the _genuinity_ in his voice. Aziraphale knew that the Archangel believed his own words to be true, as if he was a wet, slimy worm in a bed of beautiful grass, ruining a perfect piece of imagery with just his presence. 

And… Aziraphale had no qualms that prevented him from believing it too. 

“I can’t even _LOOK_ at you! You don’t deserve to _BE_ here!”

The angel didn’t bother retorting, his lips effectively sealed against further efforts to speak against him, his eyes pinned to the ground below him like they lost him at sea, and the gleaming tiles were his only lifeline. He didn’t bother speaking another word against him. 

“I’m sorry-”

A fist came thundering down as fast as a flash of lightning. 

He heard himself emit a strangled cry. 

He could feel the fractured bones in his nose _grind_ against each other, a river flowing, not with water, dripping from his nose, staining his well-kept clothes. 

Aziraphale’s knees collapsed in on him, no longer willing to carry him, his face to the ground, not wanting to look up at the Archangel above him hovering like an omen of death. 

His boss’s foot repeatedly swang like a wrecking ball into the angel’s stomach, like he was trying to dig into him in search of his spine using the full force of his heel, and with each swing, 

Aziraphale attempted to cover his stomach with his arms, writhing on the floor like a salted slug. 

A mind-numbing throbbing pain seared into him, cutting into his core like a hot knife. 

Without warning, he yanked him up, holding him tightly and tensely by the wrist as if Aziraphale was a rag-doll, thrown about like they made him to be. 

Then. 

What followed was _agony._

A fire so intense tore at him from the inside, as if a rabid animal lived within his ribcage, tearing at his skin. He must’ve screamed at some point because it ripped his throat to pieces as if it were paper, the echoes of his own bloodcurdling terrifyingly painful screams meeting his ringing, numb ears. He couldn’t feel his fingers, the ends numb, paralyzed, and cold. 

On earth, humans could consider him _legally dead_ by how chilling his fingertips felt.

“I’M SORRY- _I’M SORRY-''_

Gabriel didn’t dare let go, his predatory, empty eyes staring down at him with a keen glint of distorted _justice_ in them. 

Another long hoarse scream escaped his lips, a rough rope wrapped around his neck, his throat tightening in on itself, his body convulsing from the electricity jolting through his body, his hands frantically attempting to loosen the Archangel’s deadly grip on him, which only resulted in him tightening his fingers.

It was only when Aziraphale stopped moving, that he decided that was enough.

Pristine sandy clothes unkempt, tremors running through his arms like waves, face pale, the principality was silent on the floor with his extremities loose, in disarray. 

His deep murmurs of agony came from deep in his chest, mute defeated pleads of mercy twisting into distressed aching groans, barely resembling anything intelligible, the begging words melding together from the incomprehensible anguish. 

The room smelt of burnt flesh and the feeling of pain so vile, Gabriel was sure if someone were to walk in, they would’ve mistaken the office for hell.

The Archangel stared down blankly, his nails like knives stabbing into his palm while his hands violently shook. It was like an earthquake took over his numb, tingling fingers, a ten on the Richter Scale. 

“JUST- SHUT UP! SHUT _UP!”_

His booming voice echoed thunderously, the uncaring clinical walls closing in on the two of them, the electricity yanked back and forth between his fingers. A hurricane, he whirred towards Aziraphale. 

Each stomp made the ground rumble, making his heart sink in his chest. 

“You _MADE_ me do this!” 

The angel pointlessly shielded his face with shaking arms he couldn’t control, the life completely sucked out of him, a void-like dissociation settling in as Gabriel jerked him up by a fistful of his platinum blonde hair. 

Aziraphale’s fractured bones creaked like old floorboards, barely supporting its weight. 

He went silent, thin tears rolling down his cheeks in a steady stream, the Archangel’s face so close that he could feel his furious breath on his face. He promptly found his boss’ gray scarf rather enticing, not able to meet his eyes, a thin mist of cold sweat coating his neck. 

“You incompetent _, stupid_ principality, I could get _FIRED_ because of this! Because of _YOU_ ! Do you want that? I _bet_ you want that, don’t you, you disgraceful _BRAT!_ That’s why you made me so _riled up-”_

“No- _No_ I-”

A hand _whipped_ down, a revoltingly shattering blow across his cheekbone sent him tumbling across the room. 

His face felt numb, his ears ringing, new warm liquid dripping from his chin to the back of his hand. There was no line, he could tell, between his tears and blood. 

“ _DON’T_ interrupt me.” He roared, terrifying the ground beneath them, quaking like it was alive.

Silence again filled the room with silence, a faintly familiar feeling.

Aziraphale didn’t bother to plead, as the Archangel strode towards him like an outraged charging bull, grabbing the angel forcefully by the neck, but... _stopping._

The anger slowly drove from his expression, the hateful fiery eyes draining from his sockets as he looked at his own hands, leaving a shell of his wrath as he confusedly searched Aziraphale’s expression, his lips pulled inward into a tight frown.

A stale remnant of annoyance was visible on his face, like a slice of bread left out for too long in an open area, changing it in its entirety. 

Aziraphale didn’t notice he was straining to breathe, each breath coming out in a pained strangled wheeze until his fingers released the angel’s neck from his chokehold grip, as if he inflated like a balloon, the air pumped back into him, relief overflowing as Gabriel let him go with an unpleasant drop. 

His knees shattered against the floor, he quickly tried to sit up using his palms, like a punching bag preparing for impact.

Without another word, Gabriel knelt beside him, like a slightly irritated father consoling a ravenous child, putting his cold, dead hands on his shoulders with a firm, but much lighter grip than minutes prior, wordlessly commanding him to stay still. 

The angel repressed a shudder creeping its way up from his spine.

Though… he unexpectedly felt warm. 

A warm, comforting feeling flowed from him inside out, spreading across his chest like tendrils of light nestling inside of him, akin to a parent’s gentle embrace. It flowed through his blood, the feeling of safety blinding, from the things he’s experienced recently. 

Feeling his eyes lull downward, heavyweights pulled on them, he steadied in his spot, the world around him going blurry, only the comforting beacon of tenderness inside of him remaining, distracting him from his surroundings, the light just a thin wall away from Gabriel’s angelic grace. 

It felt… oddly intimate… bordering on _violating,_ like this wasn’t something he supposed he was to experience unless he and his boss were long-time companions. 

But, the bed of comfort he felt currently was much more appetizing than what he had put him through. 

He felt his body sink towards the Archangel’s hands as if gravity drew towards him. Two opposite charges conjoining in an ethereal dance. 

It could’ve been a minute, or an eternity, 

Aziraphale would have no way of knowing. 

Though, as all good things did, Gabriel pulled away hastily, the fleeting cardboard cutout feeling of safety pulling away as well, as did the floor from under him. 

His eyes slowly opened as the addicting feeling faded, blinking, looking around the room in visible drowsiness as his boss promptly stood up, his steps quick-paced and controlled, walking to his desk. 

Gabriel directed his pointed gaze at Aziraphale, but some of his essential irritable essences weren’t present anymore, instead, distracted, focusing on something else only he could see.

“Get out,” he ordered, pulling a sheet of unfinished paperwork from the stack. 

That was an order Aziraphale would have no trouble accomplishing. 

He scrambled to his feet like a young goat learning to walk, his throat still dry, and he quickly realized, to his surprise, that he _healed_ him. Gabriel erased the burnt lightning scars from his skin, no lingering feeling of electricity, but as he touched his wrist, he felt himself jerk away involuntarily like he touched the burner of a hot stove, his mind screaming at him.

His eyes hesitantly flickered to Gabriel, before he wasted no time, speeding down the office to the doorway. 

“Oh, and Aziraphale?” 

The principality froze at the doorknob, not daring to look over his shoulder.

“Tell anyone. And, your demon’s going to suffer.”

* * *

“So, the lady went all _‘wah’_ on it, stomping on the coin like a chimpanzee, and said a couple of death threats under her breath.” Crowley gave a fanged smirk. “It was bloody _hilarious._ I had to be all stiff-lipped about it to not be suspicious, no-nonsense, but I swear to someone that if no one was there, I would’ve pissed myself laughing. Should’ve been there, angel.” He muttered as he sipped his white wine slowly, letting the wine swirl in his mouth before washing down his throat. 

The birds chirped loudly outside, singing an alluring song of sirens, only a select few could understand, the sunrays beaming through the windows of the bookshop, giving light to the dust particles floating, disturbed by the movement. 

The smell of cake dawdled in the air, flowing through the shop, sweet and delectable, comfortingly mixing with the aroma of old, dusty books, two scents fusing in an elegant whirl of divinity streaming across the wind.

“Crowley! That’s not funny!” Aziraphale said as sternly as Aziraphale could at the moment. 

Something about his tone always seemed a little plush and friendly, like a soft cloud in a tartan bow tie, no matter how hard he tried to add an edge to it. Intimidation was respectively not in his toolbox. A sorry excuse of an angel, he was. 

“Someone could have potentially gotten _hurt!_ Who knows, maybe she meant it!”

Crowley gave a _‘pssh’_ sound, and the principality could tell he was rolling his eyes behind his darkened sunglasses.

“One or two humans gone? What’s the difference? Not like anyone’ll notice.” Muttering, Crowley took another sip of his wine, as Aziraphale shot an alarmed look. 

Crowley quickly straightened himself from his sloppy, wide sit, leaning towards the angel to explain. 

“Aziraphale, I’m a _demon._ You know, I can feel hate and what-not. There’re enough rage-fueled murderers running around London. You know I’m not gonna make another one.” 

Aziraphale relaxed a little, a slight smile gracing his lips as he looked off to the side, wine glass in hand. 

“...It did sound rather entertaining, didn’t it?” 

Crowley gave a triumphant laugh. 

“Ha! I never thought you’d say that. Isn’t your lot against temptation? Usually, this is the part where you say something like _‘oi, that’s not good, you wily serpent.’”_

“Well…” Aziraphale tugged at his collar, not exactly sure what to say. “You’re not a _wily serpent,_ Crowley, you’re _my_ wily serpent. And, what you’re attempting to achieve doesn’t exactly qualify as tempting. I suppose it’s considered more of an _elaborate human prank.”_

“Oh, come _on.”_ He made a mock offended face. “You’d know when I’m pranking. Pranks are like mini-tempts. Pranks are like appetizers to temptation. I don’t like appetizers. Pretty sure no one does, really.” 

He lazily slung an arm around the back of the sofa naturally, as if he were a blanket trying to take up as much space as possible. 

It was easy to note the snake-like qualities that translated into his bipedal form, the way his body fit so naturally and flexibly over any surface, almost like he didn’t have bones.

The angel found it adorable.

Aziraphale took a sip of his wine.

“I like appe-” he retorted quickly, his pitch heightening, before pausing, looking down at his wineglass with widened eyes, blinking lightly in confusion, looking into his glass. 

It tasted strangely of… apple juice.

A loud, happy cackling came from across from him, his palm repeatedly slapping against his armrest, sounding choked. 

_“Appetizer-”_ he wheezed, barely squeezing the words out. 

Aziraphale couldn’t help the smile spreading across his face, looking at Crowley rocking back and forth as he held his stomach with gentle eyes. 

A warm, fluttering feeling heated his chest, within his ribcage, like a dove flying gleefully inside his heart, cherry blossom petals rousing in his stomach, each one carrying a beloved indescribable feeling. 

He set the wine glass down on the small side table next to him, interlacing his fingers and placing it lightly on his lap, his smile not once wavering. 

“... Oh, you.” His love inscribed the affection in his voice. 

The laughter slowly died down to breathless chuckles, the demon setting his sights on the angel in front of him.

“Oh, _me,”_ he repeated, with a bit of a _Crowley_ spice to it, but the same loving warmth was undeniably present in his tone. 

He paused for a moment, looking into Aziraphale’s eyes from behind his glasses before he abruptly looked away as soon as he realized he noticed. 

He sipped his wine, clearing his throat. 

“...Talking about your lot, didn’t you have a meeting with Archangel Gabriel today?”

Aziraphale couldn’t find the words, the unanticipated question throwing him for a loop for a minute. 

“...I’m not sure I recall what you’re talking about,” he whispered, haltingly, shifting in place as Crowley tilted his head, puzzled. 

The birds sang cheerfully outside, singing their sweet, sorrowful songs. 

Crowley leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, oblivious to the angel’s discomfort.

“Yeah, yeah- you did, you told me the guy even swung down to tell you himself. Not a thing you’d forget, I’d imagine.” 

“...I…” He bit the inside of his lip. His eyes flickered to Crowley, uncertain and discomposed, his mind flashing to a _certain_ white room.

“... It was... nothing. Just strongly worded insults, as per usual. It was peculiar that he called me into his office, I admit. I hadn’t been doing enough miracles, apparently, and I… I just received what came with not doing my job.” The humor in Crowley slowly faded away as the angel spoke, his face pulling into a genuine grimace. 

The birds continued to sing, the light notes sounding monotone.

“...Sorry.” His voice was low and rumbling as if he was trying to hide the fact he said it. 

Aziraphale’s face pulled into a frown.

“It’s okay,” he said reassuringly, resting a warm hand on the demon’s thin knee. The serpent subconsciously swayed into his delicate, marshmallow-like touch. “It wasn’t that bad. You get used to it.” 

You don’t get used to it.

“Hope it wasn’t. Angels yelling at angels isn’t at all great to think about. You guys are supposed to be _better_ than us,” he murmured, swirling the wine in his hand. 

Aziraphale was at a loss of words, a thin smile spreading across his far-off, vaulted expression. 

“...Did you save my cake? I noticed you were already here when I arrived. It’s alright if you didn’t, I hadn’t expected you to.” He was well aware of the disorienting topic change, but there wasn’t much else to talk about from the situation. 

Not much he wanted to talk about.

“Did I save your cake? ‘Course I did, what else am I gonna do in your bookshop anyways? Read?”[3] He said with a grin, lightly dry, vaguely gesturing to a window near the front of the shop. 

The cake laid on the windowsill, golden, and bewitchingly soft, a glimmer of sunlight shining off the crusted top, steam wafting from the pan, like a dazzling ghost, playing as they floated across the air. 

Aziraphale couldn’t help but give a bell-like sound of jollity, practically bouncing in place.

“Oh, oh, _thank you!”_ Aziraphale jumped up from his seat, in delight, holding Crowley’s shoulders gently, but as enthusiastically as he could convey. 

A warm feeling splattered across Crowley’s cheeks, and he adjusted his glasses even though they hadn’t fallen down his nose at all. 

“My dear boy, this means the _world_ to me. Oh, you are truly exquisite!” 

“‘S no problem, angel.” He said, with a light grin pushing the corners of his lips against his will.

“I don’t suppose… I could _tempt_ you with some _prime_ cake decorating? I think those fingers of yours would pair beautifully with mine.” Aziraphale mused. “It would be wonderful to have an extra pair of hands.” A sly look in his eye, he leaned towards Crowley lightly with a fluffy smile.

Crowley laughed, the two of them starting towards the kitchen. “Temptation accomplished.”

**___________**

1There was a single note of resentment in his tone. It… almost carried something sour, nearly invisible to the naked eye.[return to text]

2Speaking with any authority figure, in particular, that didn’t occasionally call Aziraphale an _‘incapable of shit’_ actually made him feel a certain feeling of uneasiness as if he were in the eye of a hurricane, and that the second wave of heinous insults targeting his deepest insecurities was lurking around the corner, like a lost shadow monster trailing it’s way back to its owner. Gabriel embedded such a deep sense of internalized fear of reprimand, that he’d begun to _expect_ it.[return to text]

3Crowley did in fact read books. He occasionally read books about astronomy, reading of the discoveries that humans made of his work, finding the stars as beautiful as a rose growing out of the cracks in ice. The universe was an art form, and Crowley was _great_ at it, like any artist favoring their medium, Crowley loved making the stars. 

But, he didn’t like admitting he read astronomy books every so often, gawking at the pictures of far-away planets in the Andromeda galaxy. Because making stars was then _._ It was _before_ his life was ripped away from him. It was _before_ he was _thrown_ from heaven, like discarded trash. It was _before_ the burning, the murky hellish landscape was expected to be ‘his new home.’ Not making stars was now. [return to text]


	2. Chocolate

_ “What are you doing here, demon?”  _

_ Gabriel’s light sprint drew to a steady stop, a familiar fuzzy black hat catching his eye, his lips pulling into a tight frown.  _

_ Annoyance came instinctually to him, like a duck to water, but his voice couldn’t help but uncover the unnatural lack of it in his tone, as if he wasn’t irritated from the sudden intrusion.  _

_ He glimpsed at the sky above him, his frown driving to an exaggerated taut line, looking back at the short prince.  _

_ “I’m going to have to report back to Michael, if you plan to talk-” _

_ “Shut up.”  _

_ They paused, holding up a hand. “No one’s watching right now.”  _

_ Beelzebub glanced around, looking exhausted as always, the iffy doubtfulness edging into their cool gray eyes, the silver-blue incandescent as they adjusted their gaze upon him, giving the lightest nod in confirmation to their statement.  _

_ “And don’t call me demon. Rude. Beelzebub. It’s Beelzebub, got it?” _

_ “It’s way less rude than saying ‘shut up,’ honey. I’m an Archangel, treat me with some respect.” _

_ “And I’m the original tempter of gluttony, one of the seven princes of hell, so I tempt you to eat your words, Archangel,” they said unwaveringly, rolling their eyes smoothly, their pupils like loose marbles within their sockets as they sat down on a park bench, their hands flat on their knees, not sparing a glance towards the messenger in front of them.  _

_ The birds chirped melodies, like none could hear them, the light breeze playfully rustling the leaves on an olden oak tree, the branches whispering indistinguishable ancient tales to any passerbyers willing to listen. _

_ Gabriel gave a last search around, his eyes peeking at the far-off horizon like he expected someone to swoop in recklessly and catch him indulging in conversation with the opposition, before he reluctantly set himself on the bench as well.  _

_ “So, why are you here?”  _

_ The question came at the cost of the ambience, Gabriel’s eyes trained forward as if someone had strapped blinders to his sides.  _

_ “You wouldn’t just pop in to say hi. Unless you’re insane.” _

_ Beelzebub followed the question with an inarticulate uneasy feeling of silence, something that if you’d been there, in some other world, you would’ve formed that feeling into words. The words hung in the air, like a dangling chain, awaiting a firm pull, before Beelzebub looked at him, outstretching their hand expectantly, before quickly backtracking, nearly instantaneously regretting their decision.  _

_ Their nimble fingers, hesitant, finally placed something at his side, an item sleek and silken on his thigh.  _

_ Gabriel’s eyes widened, looking at the object, his hands gently moving beneath it and lifting it up like it would fall apart any minute.  _

_ A light gray scarf, well-made, the threads interlacing tightly, clearly made from a professional. Something emanated off of it, coming in potent tidal waves, nearly knocking him off his feet.  _

_ What was it made of?- _

_ “Hellhound fur fibers.” They answered, disrupting him from his thoughts, as if they’d been peering into his mind, before promptly looking away into the horizon, forcefully indifferent. _

_ “I created the fabric from powerful hellhound fur fibers. It helps shield you from hellfire. The left end has my sigil within the fabric, so you can summon me, if you need to. It should help protect you from anything you get yourself into.”  _

_ They left Gabriel speechless, his mouth dry and his jaw hung open as he gaped at them motionlessly, his lips cautiously closing, his brows furrowing in reasonable distrust.  _

_ Demons… weren’t supposed to give gifts without an ulterior motive.  _

_ Demons weren’t... nice.  _

_ “... Why?” _

_ Their fingers distantly traced over the heavenly broach pin resting on their ribbon mutely, rubbing the crystal with their thumb. It was quiet.  _

_ “...Consider it a thanks for the one you gave me.”  _

_ They stared away from him, as if they were conscientiously trying to avoid his doubting gaze. “No strings attached.”  _

* * *

Aziraphale’s hands caressed Crowley’s velvety scarlet hair, the gentle breeze whispering through the morning cracks of the window, the recitative and unmelodic winds whistling forgotten tunes through the old dusted glass. 

The serpent’s head rested tranquilly on the principality’s chest, the heat of his body warming his ribcage, like a fiery intimacy that never seemed to die. 

The angel could feel each gentle heated breath escape Crowley, his body shifting subtly in his sleep, unconsciously inching closer to him, pressing his face closer to Aziraphale’s rhythmically beating heart. 

He couldn’t help but trace a light thumb along the demon’s sharp cheekbones, wiping imagined traces of confectioner’s sugar from his lips from the day prior, tenderly feeling his silky skin glistening in the daybreak’s sun. 

A honeyed admiration dripped through the air, wrapping around the two of them in a soothing embrace, something Aziraphale immediately realized as...  _ love.  _

Thick, soft, heaping amounts of  _ love.  _

And it flooded this bookshop.

“Mmmn…” Crowley stirred under the cottony blankets, his head cozily nestling atop the angel like it belonged there. 

His eyelashes fluttered, peeping open as if he wasn’t allowed to, before giving a drowsy grin, not moving from the angel’s warm embrace.

“... Hey.” Laxly whispering, his cheek brushed Aziraphale’s chest as he looked up from his entanglement of limbs at the blonde beside him. “Watching me while I sleep?” His question came out in a relaxing, serene rumble, lightly accusing, his revealed golden, ravishing glistening eyes crinkling from his small grin. 

A burst of an incoherent sputter erupted from Aziraphale’s lips, stumbling over his tongue to explain himself, straightening like a stiff plank. 

“I was just- I- well, I mean-”

“’S no problem,” Crowley reassured, with a jesting smile, visibly finding the flustered noises humorous, fondly gazing into his sky-blue eyes with such warmth, some part of Aziraphale was sure his docile gaze would set him ablaze somehow. 

The serpent got off him gradually, sitting up, the cushiony blankets shifting to his waist as he stretched in the sunbeam, satisfyingly popping a few bones, particles of dust swaying in the light, a quiet, gratifying groan escaping him. 

Aziraphale sat up as well, a light hand reaching out to rest on the demon’s thigh, steadily reorganizing his untidy thoughts. Crowley raised an eyebrow, looking at him with confusion that could rival the Egyptian god Set’s. 

“...I couldn’t help but look at you as you slept. It’s rare to find a sleeping beauty, especially one that never rests,” he teased lightly, as smoothly as an angel of his calibre could, rubbing his leg with his thumb. 

A light heat steadily revealed itself on Crowley’s face, and Aziraphale could see a bewilderment in his eyes he usually couldn’t as the demon wore his sunglasses. 

His tinted face broke into a wheeze, the amusement split through his entire body, gentler than heaven’s finest cloud. Instinctively, he leaned into Aziraphale as he laughed, his head brushing against his shoulder without him even realizing the laughter fading to occasional chuckles.

“Stop that, angel. It’s early in the morning. You’ll kill me, one day.” His words were insignificant compared to the broad, simultaneously bashfully wry grin unrestrainedly spread across his face, as he got off the bed, looking back over his shoulder as he slid on his sunglasses without sparing a glance towards it, snapping on his tight regular wear. 

“You coming for breakfast?” He asked, tilting his head.

“Of course. Though, please go on without me. As much as I would like to lounge about in my pajamas all day, I am a bookkeeper after all. I’ll just be a moment.” Aziraphale stood up, easy, readily moving towards his wardrobe, his hands expectantly reaching out for the handles as if his fingers had a mind of their own.[1]

Crowley shrugged lethargically, his head whipping back around to face the door, as if it had drawn him to the exit by an unseen force. 

“Suit yourself.” The demon soundlessly shut the door, the groaning creaks of the aged floorboards showing he left, and Aziraphale turned back to the matter at hand, quickly drawing his trousers up, relaxedly humming a radiant melodic tune, a simple hymn he’d familiarized from his moments in heaven.

Heaven.

His fingertips absentmindedly buttoned his shirt, his eyes unreached by his fuzzy surroundings, his pupils holding an unilluminated quality to them, the adoring spark that manifested while Crowley was there quickly vanishing as if it never existed, a mere rumor gone to the wind. 

His expression faded to a blank shell, like a hollowed out vault, filled with only the prints of treasure and gold in the dust. 

Gabriel was a proficient boss, Aziraphale was sure of that, no doubt qualified for his job.

He was one of the most popular Archangels alongside Michael, his ranking and respect well-deserved. 

He held no ill-feelings towards him, Aziraphale always appreciated him and his self-assured authority, albeit from a distance safe from the blast radius. 

The angel had his fair share of chastisements, as did any angel under the Archangel’s unit, individualized rounds of humiliating insults becoming commonplace. 

Deafening reprimands were just a thing to get accustomed to, and that’s all they were. 

Discipline. 

Nothing hazardous as far as Aziraphale could tell. 

However… seeing the all-consuming fiery fury in his eyes told a different tale. 

The horrific shock of what happened massively outbalanced the physical  _ torture _ that took place, the unnerving feeling of being  _ jerked  _ and  _ slammed  _ about like a plaything lurching to the forefront of his mind. He could still feel it. He could still feel his  _ ghostly hands _ on his shoulders. He could still feel his  _ raging screams  _ on his face, as if he could breathe hellfire.[2]He could feel the nauseatingly startling  _ yank  _ at his wrist. 

_ Everything _ . 

He figured the feeling would subside by now, but it was still alive, a roach crawling along his skull, never passing against all odds. 

This...  _ physical scolding _ never occurred before. Was this… a new disciplinary tactic heaven was implementing? 

No, no, then Gabriel wouldn’t have told him to be discreet about what transpired. But he presumably wouldn’t do this if it was against the rules. 

Maybe it was for the Archangel’s reputation? 

He doubted that... the  _ style _ of conditioning would be popular among heaven, even if someone allowed it.

He sincerely wasn’t sure what to make of the situation, but one key factor remained clear. 

If he’d been more careful, they wouldn’t be in this situation. 

He dug their graves, using his own shovel. 

And he’d have to be the one to undo it.

He hadn’t acknowledged he’d been retying his bowtie, seamlessly repetitive, until he ventured a glance downward. 

His glorious hum devolved into an entangled disarray of nonsensical blended melodies of earthly lullabies and angelic songs, droning on and on, like a broken record.

A quivering inhale inward, he stared blankly into the mirror, his distortedly serene and collected reflection looking much more like a gateway to another reality, his gentle, calm, and  _ unnervingly _ dissociated features contrasting the growing storm thrashing about within him.

_ ‘... Come on. ... Come on. ... Get yourself together, you- you ridiculous principality. He’ll be worried.’  _

He could feel himself fracture apart like shattered glass, each line splintering off like tree branches within him, his eyes uncomfortably dry from each slow blink, completely frozen in place with a wide, far-off gaze, his shoes fused to the ground like it’d been built into the wood. 

His steady hands reached up, as if his fingers were unsure, rubbing his eyes as he took a deep breath, his lungs inflating with the air he desperately needed. 

He hadn’t realized he’d unnecessarily been holding his breath until the world spun on its axis around him, leaving him behind.

He picked up the broken remains gradually, like puzzle pieces, none of which fit, the particles collecting in his palm pointlessly, doing his best to ground himself into reality.

Aziraphale steered straight towards the door, the acquainted floorboards heaving beneath him as he stepped down the stairs. 

A whiff of something pleasing caught his attention, turning up his nose towards the savory scent waltzing along the shop without a care, something smelling of  _ eggs.  _

He delightfully strolled down the steps in a hurried walk, stopping along the doorway of the kitchen. 

Crowley glimpsed up from his work, positioning the final sunny side up egg on a small plate, along with a few sausages and a separate plate of angel food cake, relatively startled at the unforeseen entrance with his eyebrows lifted, as if they’d fly off his forehead. 

“Took you long enough. I was getting worried,” Crowley remarked, aligning the items to a tray. 

Aziraphale looked pleasantly surprised, a small smile emerging as he seated himself onto his wooden chair.[3]

“In all my years. When have you cooked?” 

Crowley gave a hum, reminiscent of a lazy muffled  _ ‘I dunno.’  _

“6,000 years is a  _ lot  _ of time. You get so unbelievably  _ bored  _ and wanna try something new. Anyone can cook a proper egg if they’re bored enough. Here.” 

His hand outreaching, he placed the wooden tray of assorted items in front of Aziraphale, nudging it closer as his other arm pulled up a chair, straddling it with the back of the chair facing the angel, sitting across from the principality. “My treat.”

Unthinking, the angel gorged himself on the delectable foods in front of him, completely ignorant to Crowley’s indecisive fidgeting, his leg bouncing in place, almost vibrating, like he was overpowered by an energy source unseen to the naked eye, not reaching out to touch the food in front of the two of them. 

Each glimpse at the principality’s eyes carried an apprehensive weight Aziraphale wasn’t too keen to notice, a distracting blend of flavors congregating on his taste buds. His lips kept parting, quickly closing after a few seconds as if the words constantly revived and died in his mouth. The cozy atmospheric silence made Crowley’s irresolute gaze from his sunglasses further out of place, almost like he was an intruder in what was practically an extension of his own home. 

“...Well,” he awkwardly started, watching the angel eat with little interest, “so, uh. How are things? For you?” 

Aziraphale curiously glanced up, the perplexity showing as he courteously swallowed his food, dabbing his lips with a nearby napkin, straightening his back as he gave a narrow smile. 

“Good. How about you?”

“Good.” The response was immediate, but reluctant and unhurried, his pace steady like honey, his eyes trained to the angel’s food like the principality wasn’t there. 

The silence returned like an old friend, changed and nearly unrecognisable, not once holding a semblance to what it once was. Crowley’s lips were pulled into a firm straight line, mouth pressed together as if he was trying to prevent himself from bursting a bizarre array of words out. 

“So. Angel.” His arms crossed on the table, leaning forward. “If you felt…  _ odd, _ you’d tell me, right?”

The food abruptly tasted like sand.

He hesitated.

“Of course. Why do you ask? Is there something wrong?” The words rolled off his tongue so slickly, he was uncertain if the words were even his own, something about his own unruffled composure setting off alarm bells in his head. 

Crowley even seemed dismayed at his nearly flat tone, completely void of the required essence to qualify as Aziraphale, leaning forward a bit further as if he were trying to reach him through a glass wall. 

The angel leaned back, visibly perturbed by the snake’s advances, his attempts to try to  _ help. _

“I overheard you talking in your sleep. You sounded so…” He couldn’t find the words, his lips constantly reopening and closing, like a fish out of water. 

The empty ambience thickened, like curdling milk, tense, spoiling the once snug atmosphere of the kitchen, and the principality only delved further into the deep, trying to distance himself noticeably from the conversation. What was he talking about? Did he… know something? Something he had no right to know, without properly grasping the situation?

Crowley finally gave a deep frown, looking at Aziraphale, delayed.  _ “... scared.”  _

He strained the smile on his face, masking something he was unwilling to deal with, bubbling under his skin. “Everyone has nightmares, every so often. You know this, Crowley.” 

“Yeah, but not everyone has a nightmare where they sound so  _ bloody  _ terrified. And I know you. We’ve known each other for millennia! I never, not  _ once  _ heard you sound like…  _ that.”  _ He spat out the word as if it were poisonous, carrying a deadweight of somberness, his hardened eyes softening as he took a deep breath, watching Aziraphale’s unsettled eyes. 

“Like you were gonna  _ die.” _ The quiet words hovered over the two like a gloomy sunset, streaks of concern flooding the atmosphere. 

Aziraphale was still.

“I’m… sorry that I’ve concerned you, my dear boy,” the principality whispered, with the core of a gentle dove. Any sound felt out of place, in the dense atmosphere of the kitchen, filled only with the low hum of the refrigerator in the distance. The demon’s pupils searched for answers that weren’t there, the ocean blue pupils so deep and dark, that you could practically swim in it. “But… you trust me, correct? You  _ believe  _ in me, as much as I believe in you?”

Crowley gave a subtle nod, barely noticeable, his expression unreadable. 

Aziraphale showed a minuscule, reassuring smile, a hand over Crowley’s, comfortably sitting on the back of his palm, his hand fitting over his so perfectly, it was almost as if it  _ belonged  _ there. 

“Then, if I say that I feel decent, that I’m completely alright, you’d believe me, right? I, in all honesty, barely remember the nightmare,” he said with a light, but humorless laugh. “I sincerely appreciate your concern, but I don’t want you to be worried about me when it’s unnecessary. I love you and seeing you worried makes me quite worried as well.”

The serpent’s head was low, silent, but some part of Aziraphale knew that he was listening, absorbing his words, processing them.

Silence drowned the sound, anticipation holding them hostage.

“... Must’ve been something else then.” Crowley finished scratching the back of his head, dismissing the topic as he stole a bite of Aziraphale’s cake. 

The principality barely noticed. 

He hadn’t realized how tense he was until he attempted to grab at his fork, his clenched fist preventing him as he quickly found. He slowly cleared his throat, his eyes trained on the demon in front of him with a visible try at a smile, finally succeeding, the edges of his lips being pulled up with fish hooks. 

“It’s Monday. Aren’t you missing some wonderful watering time?”[4] He asked in the oddly thick silence, nibbling on an egg. The silence was different from Gabriel’s, it was more comfortable, but equally aggravating to sit-in, as if the two of them were underwater, and the surface was nowhere to be found. 

“Mmmn. Yeah. ...But I’d rather be here for now,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck, looking at him, scooping at Aziraphale’s cake slice with a fork, and nimbly the angel pulled it away, the edge of the fork poking into the table’s wood. 

Crowley made a deceived face.

“I cannot  _ believe  _ you! Get your own slice.” 

“But it’s far away. And yours tastes better, the food that you eat always tastes  _ much  _ better.”

“Crowley, the cake’s in the fridge. We decorated this cake together, and all the slices taste the same. You don’t even  _ like _ sweet things!”

“What can I say? I’m a demon of change. Serpent of Eden? I’m pretty sure they misspelled… What animals change again?” 

He paused, thinking, listing it off with his fingers. “Chameleons, butterflies-”

“The  _ Chameleon of Eden.  _ Put that on a t-shirt.”

“Frankly, my dear, I mean this in the most  _ loving  _ way possible, that’s moon man talk. Absolute insanity.”

“Insanity is my middle name.”

“No, it isn’t, my love. It’s J.  _ Just _ the letter J, according to your records.”

“Hey, no dissing the J, the J is  _ priceless. _ And, at least I have a first name.” 

“The A stands for Aziraphale, mind you.”

“Aziraphale Z. Fell?” Crowley questioned with an impish smirk.

“Oh shush. I couldn’t think of a proper A name.”

“Anthony’s a good one.”

“Anthony and Anthony.”

“Wh- I’m just saying!”

A single loud knock interrupted their trains of thoughts, and their heads shot to the front door, as if drawn by some invisible powerful force, snapping to the side. 

All the playful banter abruptly stopped, leaving the air hanging with looming dread, Aziraphale’s face losing all the warmth in his cheeks, his eyes wide like a deer in headlights, his demeanor changing completely in a matter of seconds, white as a sheet.

He knew who it was; he heard it several times before, the thunderous, booming through the room, making him freeze. 

His breath caught, and he felt a strange choking sensation taking place, as if a noose was tightening around his neck without his control. 

Did he do something wrong? 

He didn’t tell anyone, as assigned. 

What did he do…?

He turned to Crowley sharply, not able to get the words out of his choked throat, but his ghastly expression spelled it out for him.  _ ‘Leave. Now.’  _

Silence drowned the confused whisper. “Aziraphale-” 

_ “Go.”  _ His voice was quiet, but he might as well yelled a bloodcurdling scream, so densely packed with utter terror, that it visibly made Crowley shiver. He motioned to an open window slowly, not looking the serpent in the eye, in fear of what he’d find. 

The serpent was speechless, his mouth hung open, but words not coming to him, questions forming in his mind, but nothing appropriate to the situation at hand. 

Hesitantly, the demon shifted to the ground, his now-snake body slithering through the window, giving an apprehensive glance to him before leaving Aziraphale to the matter at hand. 

His heart beat wildly in his chest, constantly pounding against his ribcage like an infuriated criminal behind bars, almost painful, his chest tightening as he slowly stood up, his knees feeling shaky, weak, and flooded with the urge to  _ run,  _ making his way towards the door fully knowing what he was facing there. 

He could see the silhouette of the Archangel hovering through the glass of the door, the dark looming presence reeking of a very familiar broad shouldered man, his mind screaming at him, every inch of him jittery and high-strung, as he reached for the doorknob.

Gabriel. 

“It always smells  _ evil  _ here. I guess I know why now.” 

The door creaked as he gave a laugh that sounded anything but. The world silenced around them, as if the entire universe was watching their exchange, his surroundings going blurry, but the Archangel the one person remaining clear, magnified and distorted in the principality’s distorted glasses.

Aziraphale smiled uncomfortably. 

“What do you need me for…?” He said, in a voice below a whisper, trying his best to keep his voice steady. 

What did he do wrong? Wasn’t he doing good? He had told no one about Gabriel’s… outburst, and he wasn’t planning to anytime soon. The apprehensiveness was visible on his face, twisting his expression, his eyes not meeting Gabriel’s claustrophobic gaze. Just the messenger looking at him made him feel trapped, confined, as if he had locked him in a small cage with little chance of escape. ... It’d be naïve to say he didn’t deserve it though.

The Archangel gave his customary  _ ‘seriously?’  _ expression, Aziraphale felt a slight tint of humiliation warm his face, the dread pooling at the bottom of his stomach, burdening him like a construction brick. Gabriel put a heavy hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder, leaning towards him, too far for the angel’s comfort.

“We need to talk.”

* * *

The room greeted him like an unpleasant memory, the blinding white sheen flooding his senses, leaving him defenseless. Aziraphale couldn’t help but jolt a little as Gabriel slung his heavy arm around his shoulders, the shark-grey silken suit rubbing against his neck sensitively, making him feel uneasy as he subconsciously tried to pull away. He could feel the heat of his chest behind him, as he led him into the office, raising his hand and snapping the door closed, the lock clicking shut, the last chance to back out gone.

The silence felt weighted, the white light seeping through the window gray and gloomy, suffocating. His chest felt taut as he walked towards the chair, an imprint of deceiving warmth lingering where the messenger’s arm was.

“Did I  _ say  _ you could sit down?” Gabriel asked, raising an eyebrow. “You’re covered in  _ demon.  _ I don’t want that in my office.”

Aziraphale quickly stopped, his shoulders tense, as he slowly turned back to the Archangel, holding a weighted smile. He stood, shifting his weight beneath his feet, doing his best to look at him without really doing so, constantly jumping his eyes between Gabriel’s and the wall behind him as if looking at him for too long was harrowing. 

“...What did you… need me for?” The principality asked lightly, his smile wavering. “Had I done something wrong? I’m so very sorry, you can tell me, and I’ll fix it, right away-”

“Shhhhuuut.” He drew pinched fingers in a straight line across his lips, as if zipping it up, and his mouth quickly closed, any comprehensive thought dying right then and there, severely startled by the sight of his hands. He didn’t like his hands so close to him.

Gabriel knelt down, his palms on his knees, uncomfortably near as he searched Aziraphale’s eyes. He could feel his fiery breath on his face, like a deadly dragon, close enough that with a single puff, he could be incinerated to ash. 

_ “God.  _ You’re so  _ annoying  _ sometimes. No, you’re not in trouble, so calm down. Not yet, anyway.” He rolled his eyes, pausing as his own scarf caught them. 

His eyes grew cold as he slowly unraveled the satin fabric, taking it off his neck jaggedly with disgust, as if someone covered it in muck, throwing his scarf to the side as if it were scum. “That’s better,” he muttered, before turning back to the principality who stood, doll-like, near the exit. 

He felt himself continuously try to inch towards the exit, subconsciously trying to shrink down to the size of an ant, his eyes not moving from Gabriel. 

The silence was palpable, Gabriel locking eyes with Aziraphale before giving a notorious forced smile, walking towards him at a gut-wrenching settled steady speed.

“I’d like to apologize, first and foremost, for what you made me do yesterday.” Gabriel’s fingers pressed together, contemplatively. 

Aziraphale blinked, entirely confused and stunned.

“It was completely unprofessional, I know, but if you hadn’t  _ provoked _ me, maybe I wouldn’t have done that. Have you ever thought of that?”

Aziraphale gave the lightest, most unnoticeable nod. Some twinge of guilt rose in him, completely unprompted, the regret making his back feel heavy, as if he were carrying some unseen backpack of past decisions he  _ couldn’t  _ change. 

Some part of him was aware of how…  _ shrewd  _ Gabriel sounded in the depths of the farthest corners of his mind, but the guilt was much  _ louder, _ yelling atop the little voice in his head reminding him this was  _ wrong.  _

Though, the thought that Gabriel was  _ apologizing  _ won over  _ all  _ the noise in his head. He knew whether it be concealed from the naked eye, his boss...  _ cared  _ about him. 

Gabriel…  _ liked  _ him, and Aziraphale  _ wanted  _ him to like him. 

He trained his eyes to the floor, as if his neck was stuck in that position.

Gabriel snapped in his face, startling him. “Hey, hey, sweetie, look at me when I’m talking to you.” 

His head jerked up, as if hoisted by invisible strings, his eyes wide. “Sorry, I was-”

Gabriel held up a hand, silencing him.

“... You make this so  _ hard.”  _ He gave an exasperated sigh, looking Aziraphale over with an irritated, tired expression, as the guilt did cartwheels in his stomach. He looked so done with him, the stress over yesterday’s quarrel weighing heavily, the acrimonious frustration and inflamed anger dissipating to sheer deflated, mildly irritated disappointment. 

Like he believed in him. 

“You know that, right?”

“... Yes.” His voice came in a whisper.

_ “Good.”  _ He said, pitilessly. “Anyway, my point is I’m  _ sorry _ , even though what happened wasn’t that bad. That’s all you need to know. So, here’s a gift to you.” 

_...Gift? _

The Archangel snapped up a white box, the cardboard landing on the desk table with a heavy  _ thud,  _ flicking the lid open and turning the box towards Aziraphale, standing at its side. 

Chocolates. 

Several neat squares of  _ milk chocolate _ . 

There was a significant, deliberate pause as Gabriel stared at him, and Aziraphale, feeling the heat of his gaze, completely unsure what to do, tried to reach for the chocolate inside, and  _ snatched  _ his wrist at the last moment, causing Aziraphale to  _ flinch  _ back convulsively. The messenger barely even noticed, his cold dead amethyst eyes pinned on him, freezing him in place.

“Did I  _ say  _ you could?”

He couldn’t bring himself to speak, the walls closing in on him as he staggeringly, slowly shook his head, completely tense and mute, not able to look at him. 

His hand was on his wrist. 

His  _ hand  _ was on his  _ wrist.  _

Panic drilled into him at a speed faster than his rapid heart rate, his throat clogged, as if he was trapped underwater, the familiar terror the only thing keeping him afloat aboard a never ending black sea, flashes of memories keeping him completely  _ petrified.  _

He was let go with a low annoyed groan, muttering something under his breath, and the invisible tightening rope around his neck ceased. 

His breath mutely burst in and out, quickly retracting his hand to a safe, unreachable distance, clasped curtly behind his back. The fear gradually faded into a mix of adrenaline-fueled jittery anxiety and utter shame, taking root into the base of his heart. 

...He keeps messing  _ up.  _

Does he always do this?

“Anyway. This is for you. I made it myself, so you better appreciate it.” He looked at the box of chocolates, pausing as the gears in his head churned, before plucking one square from the box and moving towards Aziraphale. 

The only sound in the room was the riveting quietness that seemed to seep in through the corners, piling onto every surface possible. Aziraphale subconsciously took a step back, his eyes wide and uncertain as the Archangel advanced towards him, visibly apathetic towards the principality’s hesitance, like the angel’s opinion on the decision could matter less. 

He flipped the chocolate in his hand, his unreadable gaze sending shivers down Aziraphale’s spine, scanning his face, searching for something Aziraphale wasn’t aware of. His heart pounded mercilessly in his ears, invading his sense of thought, the quiet office ambience amplifying to ear-bleeding ringing.

His back met the wall, not realizing there was no more room to corner himself into, the cool white clinical surface doing nothing to ease his sense of impending  _ doom.  _

Gabriel’s hand reached up, and the angel couldn’t help but wince, quietly sucking in a breath as his arms were stiff as a board, resisting the instinct to protect himself, his eyes squeezed shut, his head bowed low, confined to the little corner in the room, his body not letting him move. 

But… nothing came. 

He felt his icy hands trace along his jawline, his thumb resting lightly on his cheek, unfamiliarly  _ soft.  _ He knew his boss could feel him lightly trembling under him, but there were no tells on his expressionless face that showed he acknowledged this. 

He hadn’t realized how close they were until he could feel Gabriel’s hot breath practically on his neck, feeling each slow warm puff making the hairs on the back of his neck stand, the two so close that their noses almost touched, the air unpleasantly  _ intimate,  _ completely against his will _. _

His rough cool fingers traced to his chin, Aziraphale’s eyes slowly opening with a jittery nervousness, his sea blue pupils darting across Gabriel’s face, the Archangel’s knuckles curling under his chin, tilting his head upward, silently telling him to look at him. 

He did.

His violet eyes gleamed in the shadowy corner of the room, almost looking like they were glowing, like bright crystals in the darkness, his menacingly tall appearance blocking the light from the windows, staring into his.

Wordlessly, he stuck the chocolate in-between his lips, pushing it into his mouth with the tip of his thumb, straight-faced. 

Without any hesitation, he ate it, swallowing though his throat was completely dry. 

Within seconds, a euphoric rush followed. Warm, bubbly, and entirely  _ familiar,  _ feeling exactly like how Gabriel healed him yesterday, a light burst of pure ecstasy filling his chest cavity, heat filling his cheeks, as he practically but unwillingly leaned into Gabriel’s hand, feeling the ground crumble beneath him.

“Good job.” 

His voice was low, quiet, and rumbling, as if it were rolling thunder in the distance. But… something strangely  _ soothing  _ about the approval in his words, though the rolling unease never dared to discontinue. 

His finger rubbed gentle circles on the principality’s cheek, drawing warm loops on his face he had yet to understand, so unusually docile that he wasn’t able to decipher how he felt about the circumstance. 

For the first time in a few millennia, he satisfied his boss with him. 

Not yelling.

Not angry. 

Not  _ disappointed. _

He was content with him.

And Aziraphale felt like crying.

**___________**

1He could’ve just snapped on his human clothes in a flash, barely wasting any time, but this was Aziraphale. He prided on keeping his most treasured belongings in tip-top condition, never willing to tarnish his clothing with angelic essences.

Just miracling it upon him stripped everything human about it, obliterating every little mis-placed thread and uneven wrinkle, unnaturally perfectly arranged on his body. Of course, with enough practice at miracling, somehow without catching heaven’s eye, with enough painful memorization of his garments, of every minuscule detail, he might have been able to pull it off. But this was Aziraphale. He wasn’t like Crowley.[return to text]

2By all accounts, hellfire was much preferable. Hellfire hurt him much less than the barrage of words the Archangel used. The painful burning agony of hellfire didn’t compare to the overwhelming feeling of letdown that Gabriel gave him, after he inevitably failed one of his many assignments. The heated, raging fire scorching his wings didn’t dare compete with the fury that Gabriel held when Aziraphale attempted to make things right.

Hellfire would never hold a finger to how much his boss  _ hated  _ him. Hellfire would never hold a finger to how much he hated himself.[return to text]

3Crowley was never one to appreciate food. Well, not as much as Aziraphale did. The demon stuck to expensive wines, and he gave anything else little interest towards anything else when not in Aziraphale’s presence. It always slightly bothered him, something nagging in the back of his mind, at this demon who didn’t deeply understand the significance of human flavor.

Earth, despite its ragged appearances, had far more luxuries compared to heaven, and from what he’s heard from Crowley, hell. Just taking the time to appreciate nutritious food was considered, at least for him, time to appreciate humanity, and the very essence of their creation. After all, it would not last very long, so they might as well treasure what they offer.[return to text]

4Aziraphale understandably didn’t approve of Crowley’s watering. The screaming, the brutal fury on the serpent’s face, the shivering of the plants… it all sparked an old instinctive angelic instinct to instantly  _ smite _ whatever being was causing such demonic essence, even if he knew it was Crowley. 

But, he quietly understood that this strange ritual Crowley committed to for several years wasn’t just to yell at some poor bushes. No, no, it ran much deeper. Aziraphale was polite enough to not think about it too much. The two settled on a compromise. Once a week, Crowley was allowed to yell at them, and they’d been fairly happy with that.[return to text]


	3. Pretty Tears

_ `“...I thought you didn’t like demons.” Beelzebub whispered under their breath, almost snarkily, their face so close to his that their noses grazed each other, like two planets orbiting in a ritualistic pointless dance, never meaning to touch.  _

_ He gravitated towards them, holding their cheek in his palm as if it were his own, as gently as a bird’s feather, the two swaying under Earth’s stars, the moonlight hiding their apprehensive but equally passionate expressions.  _

_ It all felt so wrong.  _

_ He could fall because of this.  _

_ He always knew in the back of his mind that she was watching, his conscience yelling crude swears as he tucked a loose hair behind their ear. It felt so right.  _

_ It had no business to feel as comfortable as it did. _

_ “I don’t.” The hesitant whisper blended with the crickets chirping in the distance, barely audible among the night. “I like _ you.”

* * *

The rest of the meeting went by in a blur. 

Aziraphale was dismissed from his white office and commanded to return again the following Monday, given a long list of assignments that he’d been expected to accomplish by the next time they met. 

A noticeable weight presented itself on his shoulders, something he didn’t have as he walked in as if a boulder strapped itself to him with no intention of letting go. 

He briefly grazed his cheek with his fingers, his vibrant crystal blue eyes dull and far-off, a warm imprint of Gabriel’s hand lingering on his face like a fire that never ceased to die. 

Despite the oddly comforting feeling it gave, it did nothing to quell the anxiety now stirred in his throat, his eyes roaming to the clean thick sheet of cream paper in his hand. 

His fingers absentmindedly called for the elevator, and he stepped in without much thought.[1]

…The tasks he’s assigned him to were…  _ more  _ than impossible. 

Just accomplishing  _ one  _ of these would take around a year or so, and he expected him to finish it by next  _ Monday? _

A feeling of utter desperation came in waves, pulsing rhythmically, washing away any hope he had, the dark and heavy feeling encapsulating him like an itchy old quilt. 

… He couldn’t stop thinking about what would happen if he...  _ failed. _

His fingers pressed tightly against the paper, hands slightly trembling as he reached up to rub one of his eyes with his palm, his eyes sore and the urge to crawl under his comforters to sleep away his existence at an all-time high, the crushing expectant pressure violently outweighing the mind numbing exhaustion setting in, nearing the light blue skies of earth, the familiar scents of fresh air and human  _ love  _ reminding him of how he  _ needed _ to calm down. 

He was going to be okay. 

He  _ had _ to be. 

He was going to do this. 

He tried to give a wide smile, his eyes pinned on the opening doors of the elevator, stepping through with the outward confidence and optimism of a hero on a journey.

He set himself to the streets, walking quickly through the crowds of people, cutting through them easily like a butter knife, his shop staring down upon him like a child to its mother, friendly and familiar among the array of unrecognizable faces surrounding him.

Aziraphale’s hand slowly raised up as he entered, turning to stare through the glass, his expression suddenly... blank. 

The room was silent, as it awaited his action, but he stood as motionlessly as a statue, frozen in place as time itself stilled. 

The pressure on his shoulders collapsed in on itself. 

His fingers pulled into a snap, drawing the shop’s blinds, the room wrapped in shadowy darkness as his knees fell onto the floor, his head curling into his body like he was desperately trying to shield himself from any bright light seeping in through the cracks. 

His calm, optimistic, and discreet manner degraded to pulsating bursting breaths of air, wheezing out, uncontrollably and  _ wild, _ as if he couldn’t break the surface tension of the sea he was trapped under, his entire body shaking like he was freezing, his chest growing tighter and tighter as the bile rose in his throat. 

His heart screamed in his ears, his limbs numb and frozen like they’d been perfectly preserved in amber, every part of him wanting to plummet through the earth and burrow his head in the sand just so he would be able to deal with the ear-bleeding ringing he heard, the utter exhaustion pumping through his blood, even though he hadn’t exerted much physical effort. 

His hand was firmly wrapped around his mouth, so firm it almost hurt as his nails dug into his cheek, muffling the frantic attempts to breathe. 

_ Calm down, please for someone’s sake calm down-  _

But he couldn’t. 

Like the moronic bastard he was, he couldn’t. 

The dread never drove off, the feeling of hopelessness mockingly laughing at his agony, taunting at him, huddled in the dark dusty corners of the room. 

Tears spiked his eyes, stinging as they rolled, neverending, down his cheeks, onto the back of his white knuckled hand, splashing onto the floor as he curled tighter in on himself, flashes of memories of violet eyes making him violently gasp involuntary breaths. 

He couldn’t fail, no, no,  _ no.  _ Please,  _ please, _ he couldn’t fail. 

“...Angel?”

The words cut through his own frantic panic. He didn’t dare look up, unable to quiet the sounds of his own choked sobs, resorting to trying to take trembling breaths through his fingers.

“Sorry- sorry- dear- I’m just- I’m just having- having a moment- I’m- I’m fine-” 

His voice broke. 

He tried to raise his voice so the serpent could hear, but the jumbled explanation came out in less than a whisper, strained, the words garbled and nearly intelligible through his own pathetic sounds.

At first, there was no movement. 

It was almost like the two lived in their own separate worlds, the room silent once again, the books indifferently listening in, all-ears, filled only by the sound of Aziraphale’s shaking badly silenced hyperventilation which now blended with the ambience. 

There was a heavy pause, before a few steps could be heard from the serpent, audibly reluctant and silent. 

The angel didn’t dare move, subconsciously afraid that if he sprawled back, Crowley would leave. 

The demon knelt down, gently placing his glasses on the floor, stopping as he quietly watched him, hovering over him like a failed guardian. 

Pulling him into a hug.

Tight, genuine and true, his arms nestled around him from behind like it belonged there. Aziraphale gave a quiet startled gasp, unnecessarily holding his breath in fear that if he let out a breath, Crowley would blow away like dust. 

His throat drastically tightened, the walls clashing against one another, itchy and painful, as his eyes stung like lemon drops mixed in with them. 

His mouth was agape, unhinged like it was broken, a single soundless tear dripping down his cheek. 

Before he let out an anguished cry. 

Emotions flooded in without warning, the barrier broken as a concoction of indescribable feelings tore through him mercilessly, all containing different feelings and messages he had yet to decipher. 

His soft fingertips clawed at the serpent, grabbing onto him as if he was the only person preventing him from plummeting through an endless pit. 

His silenced sobs were now unmuffled, his violently trembling hand which once were wrapped around his own lips now gripped Crowley’s cool leather jacket, unleashing hiccuping mournful wails into the nook of his neck. 

“...Hey, love, shh, shh, breathe.” The demon whispered reassurances in a gentle tone the angel didn’t know Crowley could produce, his fingers combing delicately through his platinum blonde hair.

_ “I’m fine- I’m fine-” _ he repeated in a whisper, shakily like a broken record, world shattering tremors shooting up through his entire body.

A memory of a  _ white room _ continually struck him like lightning, almost physically painful as the vague wisps of distant thunderous electrical shocks playing on repeat in his head. 

The snake’s fingers lightly clutched the angel’s hair, not daring to respond to Aziraphale’s blatant lie, pulling him in closer as if he was protecting him from some imaginary hovering figure, glaring up at whoever caused him such unthinkably tremendous pain. 

The books watched keenly, as the distortedly chaotic air slowly lulled, quieting. 

Long minutes passed, each second seeming like an eternity as Aziraphale regained control of his breathing, taking the reins with shaking palms, and Crowley, uncharacteristically patient, didn’t let go, holding onto him with such a tight grip, the principality was sure at some point he’d fall apart. 

The angel’s hands slowly dropped to his sides, his palms on his knees, the hurricane residing in his chest calming to gentle waves, unmoving from the demon. 

“...I’m okay.” 

The words were sore, hoarse, and carrying a far-away dread that was nearly undetectable, but much more collected than his panicked stammering. 

Crowley let go, the grim look of frustration now visible through the serpent’s slitted eyes, his lips firmly pressed together. Somehow, Aziraphale knew that anger wasn’t directed towards him.

“...Was it that  _ bastard  _ again?” He spat out in a whisper, as if he was afraid of being heard, a hiss audibly at the tip of his tongue. 

“Bloody hell, ‘cause if it was, I’m gonna start the war  _ early- _ ”

_ “Crowley!”  _

There was something about the genuine shock in the angel’s voice that made a wince surface on the demon’s face. “It wasn’t his fault. Nothing… happened. Nothing important.” His finger absentmindedly traced over the side of his cheek with an unreadable expression. 

“...I… I just messed up, that’s all, and I’m attempting to fix it. He  _ cares _ about me, he surely wouldn’t do it without reason. He… he just apologized for yesterday. For… what happened.” 

Crowley’s face pulled into a thin frown, a shadow hovering over his sharpened golden pupils, eyes nearly and eerily luminescent in the dark bookshop, a memory flashing in the snake’s weighted eyes, a memory Aziraphale couldn’t comprehend. 

“He doesn’t  _ care  _ about you, angel.” He responded in a low, rough voice, leaning towards him with an intensity the principality couldn’t face, breaking eye contact.  _ “None _ of them do. They don’t care about  _ earth,  _ they don’t care about  _ humans,  _ they don’t care about  _ us.”  _ A light hiss seeped into his last word, his forked tongue pushing out. “Archangels. Sociopaths, the lot of them. All they care about is the ‘great plan,’ so much so that they forget about the little guys. You’re  _ forgiving _ someone who didn’t give a  _ damn _ about you until you  _ broke down.” _

“What do you understand about heaven? What do you know about  _ Gabriel?” _ Aziraphale’s shoulders grew stiff, his voice quiet but the accusing edge never dulling. 

“You’re a demon. You’re _ fallen, _ and I apologize darling, but I don’t condone-”

“Yeah, well I  _ was  _ an angel. I was exactly like  _ you.” _

He jabbed a light finger into the principality’s chest. 

“Did you ever think of that? How I know what heaven’s like? You ever thought about how I  _ knew  _ him too? I even knew the prick before he was promoted, and you think I don’t know what he’s like?” He said, his golden gaze too scrutinizing for the angel to meet them. 

The question was met with no answer, the silence stretching on, pulling him apart like taffy, Aziraphale’s fists balled on his thighs. 

The intensity of the serpent’s stare faltered, his open mouth gently closing with considerable effort as he turned his head to the side.

“...Look. This isn’t-” Crowley gestured vaguely over the angel with a lazy hand. “This isn’t  _ right.  _ You’re just brilliant. You know that this isn’t. I haven’t  _ once  _ seen you like...  _ this,  _ so panicky. The events from last night line up _ ,  _ so whatever that arrogant arse said to you really must’ve done  _ something.  _ And, here I am trying to figure out what that is.” He leaned forward slightly, his brows furrowed, and Aziraphale in turn repelled away from him tenfold, his weight fully resting on his wrists.

After a long moment of uncomfortable familiar silence, the angel’s eyes hesitantly settled on Crowley, tense and flickering over the snake’s sharp features as he questioned what to say. He took in a shaking inhale, letting out a quiet, quivering, tired sigh, staring down at the floor, as resigned as a fallen knight. 

“...I messed up.” 

The whisper was barely audible, the words under his breath, as if he didn’t intend for Crowley to hear it. 

His pale blue eyes readjusted on the demon’s confused face, blinking deliberately and noticeably. He itched at the back of his neck, his skin suddenly feeling limiting and tight. 

“I… may have said something that… has angered him,” glancing at the serpent’s wide eyes, he hastily retraced his steps, “I have it under control though! He hasn’t… done anything that wasn’t understandable. I would have done the same in his position-”

“‘S this about us?”

“Heavens no!” 

Aziraphale replied a bit too quickly for his liking, the suspicious eyebrow raise Crowley gave him making his throat dry, frantically attempting to form words to explain. ...It wasn’t a bad lie if it was for the greater good, now was it? “I- well, if he knew, we wouldn’t be here, now would we? The policies and procedures for this type of behavior is cut-throat on both of our respective sides,” he reasoned.

The serpent’s lips pulled into a thin frown, nodding along to his reasoning with his sharp eyes pinpointed to a crook in the wood. “Yeah, I get that.”

“Then, it would be reasonable to assume that this event is  _ my _ own doing. Not heaven, and certainly not  _ Gabriel,  _ who has better things to do than- than  _ bully  _ a third tier angel. You may have known him before the Great Fall, but I know him  _ now. _ He’s capable of compassion, despite your implications, and despite your absolutely  _ demonic  _ view-”

“Compassion? Angel, are we talking about the same person here? You’re talking about the same  _ saint _ who assigned a  _ Principality  _ to guard Eden.[2]It’s almost like he  _ wanted _ you to fail. Don’t you think I forgot about that the first time we met.” Crowley almost growled, speaking with such disdain, every word sounding somehow like a foreign curse. “What does he have over you? What do you even see in him anyways?” There was a tense pause. 

“Why are you  _ defending  _ him?”

A quiet draped over them, Aziraphale quieting as his unreadable expression tightened, looking slowly at Crowley with such intense undefinable emotion that the serpent found himself unable to fill the ambience with a stream of noise as he usually did, the angel’s emotion nearly bursting at the seams, all hidden under a veil of still tranquility. 

The angel gave a gentle, humorless chuckle, his vibrant baby blue eyes glassy, the principality giving a light distant smile, the crinkles not fitting into place, looking unnatural in the worst ways possible. 

“...I… want him to be…  _ proud  _ of me.” 

Aziraphale shakily whispered the weighted sentence in a far-off voice, staring into the floor under him, rubbing the back of his hand with his thumb. 

It was silent.

Crowley couldn’t find the words, the quiet absorbing the atmosphere of the room, like a sponge, his mouth hung open like he was trying to speak, but nothing came out, not entirely sure what to think. 

But, Aziraphale sat there, doll-like, as still as a mannequin in winter, with an empty look the serpent couldn’t describe without failing to do it justice, the gears in the angels head churning like no tomorrow, trying to digest a thought the serpent had yet to understand. 

The silence came again, familiar, but blurring and mystifying the principality in front of him, so much so that the demon felt on the other side of the world to his partner, though they were within arms reach of each other. 

The angel’s red, sore eyes faded to something that the snake couldn’t entirely understand, his exhausted expression shifting to something that seemed painted on. Hollowed out, like a jack-o-lantern. Aziraphale cut the silence with a fragile breath of air, as quiet as a whisper. 

“...I’m sorry for… all of this. Is it alright if we…  _ don’t _ talk about this, dear?” 

The question was light and cheerful, but sounded heartbreakingly like a silent plea for mercy, as if the serpent had somehow been  _ hurting  _ him with his words. 

Though his concern filled the room, the sentences required to pressure his partner choked in his throat, his airway clogged with a thick feeling of regret.

“’Course.” 

The reply was short, immediate, and brief, trying to hide the overloading concern in him that would inevitably find its way into his voice. His hand reached out slowly, lightly resting atop Aziraphale’s, his brows knitted together, trying to steady his voice as the angel’s head tilted up. 

“Look. I’m…  _ worried _ for you. Sometimes. Well, a lot of the time. I don’t know what’s going on with you, and you’re not telling me anything, so I jump to think that something bad happened. ‘S okay if you don’t want to tell me what’s going on, but… just… take care of yourself, m’kay?”

“Okay.” 

That word somehow sounded smaller than an atom. 

Aziraphale gave a single nod, rubbing his sore eyes as he stood up with considerable effort, Crowley hopping to his feet to assist him, gripping his hand as if the serpent was the anchor to a rocking ship. 

Without a second glance, the demon miracled his sunglasses into his hand off from the dirty floorboards, sliding them on effortlessly, walking alongside the angel with less of his usual strut and more like a mother duck, his eyes continuously shifting behind his shades to attempt to monitor the angel’s expression. 

Aziraphale’s off-puttingly vacant expression broke into a gentle teasing smile, looking over his shoulder at Crowley. 

“...That was rather nice of you. In fact, I think that’s one of the  _ kindest _ things I’ve heard you say,” he said cheerily, as if he’d won some game, his voice still audibly hoarse.

“Oh, shut it.” Crowley gave an eye roll, knowing full well that the angel couldn’t see it, but understanding that somehow the message got across. There was a significant pause, as they walked, Crowley staring ahead of him. “...Hey, ‘Zira?”

“Yes?”

“...Love you.”

His teasing smile softened like butter, warming like sunshine on a cloudy day. 

“I love you too.”

* * *

It was Monday. 

The messenger hoisted his legs onto his desk, scrolling through his phone absentmindedly as his eyes eventually wandered towards his office door, half-expecting Aziraphale to come crashing through with his exceedingly simple tasks half-done. 

There was always something so… different about the principality, compared to all of the other angels, something he couldn’t entirely describe. Aziraphale was so  _ so _ annoyingly  _ human,  _ with his…  _ empathy  _ and what not. __

I mean, if you’re an angel, at least try to  _ act  _ like one. 

Just residing near his presence made it feel like the principality was a gnat in his head, buzzing and bouncing away in his ears, forcing him to battle the urge to  _ smack  _ him ruthlessly across the face. 

He knew somewhere, in the darkest, dampest pits in his mind, that it wasn’t right to treat him like this, a small voice in the back of his head pleading for the angel’s mercy, but what could he do? 

He was his  _ boss.  _

He was supposed to keep his employees in check, make sure they’re disciplined, not go around frolicking with them. And, it’d be agonizingly awkward to suddenly start to try treating him respectively, not that he ever intended to. 

His merciless words became somewhat of a routine for him, spouting incessant insults with as much flavor as he could muster, kicking the angel down verbally, as hard as he could, void any real reason other than the principality caught him on a bad day. The lord may forgive, but he did _ not.  _ Though, that is to say he wasn’t without a heart. Outside of work, he was pretty much as harmless as a dove. 

Aziraphale was just a...  _ special _ angel that needed some of his  _ fine tuning. _

His eyes moved towards his gleaming leather watch, glittering like a gem in the sand, the soft ticking reverberating through the pure white room. 

_ Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. _

Teary sea blue eyes dripping with fear filled the Archangel’s head, the ragged choked breaths sounding like he was held underwater, his voice gritty and suffocated as the angel nearly swallowed his own tongue, shaking uncontrollably like he couldn’t support his own weight. 

Gabriel’s eyes twitched.

_ Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. _

Shrill, terrified, torn screams ripping through the atmosphere, the heavy  _ thud  _ against heaven’s floors, the desperate but arguably pointless attempts to escape the fiery furious wrath... The memory sat in his head like a brick. He could still feel the principality’s lingering quaking on his fingertips, how he trembled under him like a petrified bunny, trying so frantically to gain his approval at the same time. 

The messenger absentmindedly spun a pen through his fingers, his violet eyes hard.

_ Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. _

He couldn’t stop thinking about it. 

The memory felt pinned to him as if he were a corkboard, rolling freely about his head like a rubber ball, his pupils staring into the office door like it committed murder. The entire event was startling, mentally shocking, drilled into the forefront of his mind. Gabriel’s lips were taut, his fist curling around the fountain pen as clear-as-day pictures of the event flashed through his mind. 

It was extremely startling... because it felt…  _ good.  _

A feeling more addictive than anything he’d encountered bubbled inside him, fizzy like champagne and warmer than the hottest pits in hell lived just below his ribcage like an unwelcome animal, fluttering around with disregard to his objection. His mind flashed to Beelzebub, a mere mental image of their face completely derailing his train of thought, before he jumped to brush it off. 

It felt so  _ wrong.  _

He knew it was wrong to hurt an angel, his conscience on overdrive as he thought of the writhing principality. 

But… it felt so...  _ right.  _

It felt so  _ right  _ to just… close his fist for once, instead of letting insults spill together like some barbaric word salad, let his emotions take the reins for once and let off some much needed steam on an unsuspecting but well-deserving victim. To let himself just show how he felt, instead of his venomous tongue doing all the work. 

…He knew he could fall because of this. 

But this wasn’t the first time he indulged himself in un-angelic behavior, so he concluded The Almighty either simply didn’t care about what he did, or stopped paying attention to her creations millennia ago. Neither did he care if he was wrong and pathetically fell. 

…Maybe then, he and Beelzebub could finally get together. 

He let out a loaded sigh, delicately placing the shiny pen with utmost care into its velvety wooden compartment, his eyes watching as the door reluctantly opened, a familiar soft face presenting itself, almost peeking out behind it, holding the door as if the thin board was a shield, like he wasn’t allowed to enter the office. 

“You’re five minutes late.” 

His icy tone noticeably stabbed into the visibly shaken principality, like icicles impaling his chest. Gabriel slowly stood up, adjusting his suit jacket with a cold, dead smile, his hands politely but authoritatively clasped in front of him. 

Something about the alarmed horror in Aziraphale’s mesmerizing winter blue pupils was completely invigorating, the feeling swallowing him whole as he took a heavy step closer, the angel restraining himself from stumbling backwards, instead going against his greater instincts and shakily closing the only means of escape behind him, the lock giving a satisfying click. The messenger suppressed the urge to laugh. 

“Do you have it done? I gave you a  _ week.” _

The principality’s mouth opened and closed, speaking inaudible words before he stammered out a reply. “I- well, you see, the thing is- I… things haven’t exactly-” 

Gabriel raised a finger, and Aziraphale immediately silenced, the messenger upturning his nose, and took in a deep whiff of the crisp air, much to the principality’s anxious anticipation, the messenger closing his eyes before steadying his rock hard gaze on the antsy angel in front of him. 

The Archangel digested the scents lingering in the air, his sharp prodding finger still pointed upward, commanding the principality’s obedience, before he refolded his hands curtly in front of him, giving a harmless look accompanied with a predatory tilt of his head. 

“Closer.” 

The deceivingly delicate tone sliced through the silence of the room, the soundlessness as thick as honey, the atmosphere as cold as the Archangel’s heart. Aziraphale’s breath hitched, a shiver crawling up his spine to his shoulders, his feet frozen to the ground. 

“I said.  _ Closer. _ ” 

His expression hardened, his abruptly harsh tone making the angel jolt in place, avoiding the messenger’s poking eyes as he reluctantly walked towards him, each step cautious and shaky, as if he were walking on thin ice. Gabriel drank up the principality’s fear, Aziraphale’s pupils constantly darting between the messenger and the floor, anticipating his next move, the Archangel satisfyingly sipping at his terror like it was expensive wine.

“...Demons have a…  _ certain  _ smell to them. You know this, don’t you? After all, you  _ fraternize _ with one.” Gabriel circled around Aziraphale, like a shark stalking its prey, moving calmly behind him with his heels clacking against heaven’s glistening white tiles, the wide empty room echoing with the sound of his heavy footsteps, the angel’s lips completely sealed. 

“Smoke and ashes, kinda like burnt wood.” The principality tensed as the messenger lightly traced his finger across the blonde man’s shoulder, his hand comfortably resting in the nook of his neck, so utterly stiff that he couldn’t help but shake like a leaf, suppressing a yelp as the Archangel’s iron grip held him in place. Gabriel leaned in, taking in the principality’s aroma as if it were a sweet perfume, his face so close, his nose grazed the hairs on the angel’s neck. 

Before, he drastically and startlingly shoving him to the ground with one arm, with as much energy he could put in, the principality completely floored from the sheer force of the Archangel, breathless. 

He gave a single, genuine, pitiless laugh, mocking and amused as the angel didn’t even attempt to get up, protectively shielding his stomach with his arms as his cheek rested on the cool white floor, his pale blue eyes wide and visibly shaken from the violent push. 

“You’re a  _ pathetic  _ excuse of an angel. Seriously? After last time, I thought you learned your lesson, but  _ apparently  _ not. Let me guess, you and the demon are still mingling with each other. How clear do I have to make this? You don’t learn, do you? You  _ never  _ learn.” 

His words were stormy, bubbling like molten lava, the sentences immediately shooting from his tongue like instinct, coating the angel in a thick layer of shame, but the messenger felt anything but enraged, almost bemused with Aziraphale’s enthralling glossy pale blue eyes. 

“God, why did I even trust you? I should’ve assigned someone else these tasks, not someone who  _ comes to me with it half done.”  _

_ “I’m sor-”  _ His jaw snapped shut. 

Stunned as his hands slowly reached up, timidly touching the device tightly strapped around his mouth as if it would burn him, the cold metal uncomfortably cutting into his skin. 

The angel attempted to speak, the muzzle moving around his jaw, but nothing came out other than a series of hoarse, rapid breaths, his frenzied thoughts screaming so loud the messenger could nearly hear his silent pleas for mercy, though the room was still.

“See, now  _ that’s _ a good look on you, Aziraphale.” 

His footsteps were heavy and deliberately intimidating, his amethyst eyes staring into the principality with such force that in any other circumstance, the mere heat of the Archangel’s gaze would’ve set him ablaze. 

The principality scrambled backwards with a thread of control over his flailing limbs, his fingers clawing over the metal muzzle desperately, his eyes glossy and undeniably fearful as he avoided locking gazes with the messenger. 

Gabriel jerked him by the wrist, the principality’s soul visibly leaving his body as his face was white as a sheet, not even attempting to tug his arm away from him, his shoulders stiff and risen as if he were bracing for impact, soundless silent tears streaking down the metal muzzle. 

“Do you hear that?” The Archangel leaned towards the angel with a heart-pounding irritated grin. 

“Hm?”

Aziraphale mutely shook his head, his eyes distant, wide, and glazed, not meeting the messenger’s gaze.

_ “Exactly.  _ That’s what I like to hear from you.  _ Nothing.  _ If you had anything important to say, I’d  _ ask _ . I guess that’s hard to understand, especially for someone like  _ you.”  _

Each word carried a nearly lethal dose of poison, Gabriel somehow yelling without even raising his voice an inch, the principality absorbing every word like a sponge. 

“You have the  _ audacity  _ to assume that you’re on the same level as me? That you can  _ speak  _ without my permission? How  _ ARROGANT  _ are you?” 

His open hand came crashing down, whipping across the angel’s cheek with the intensity of lightning, the angel stumbling to the ground, thrown to his knees, holding the side of his stricken face as he tried to breathe with little success. 

In a familiar motion, Gabriel kicked the principality to the ground like a wrecking back, swinging into his ribs as he contentedly inhaled the hoarse, muffled, violent screams of the angel in front of him like cigarette smoke, watching as the angel recoiled, trying to protect himself like a salted slug. 

He felt the electricity bounce back and forth from his fingers, the adrenaline invigorating and completely encapsulating his sense of morality, yanking Aziraphale by the wrist, not wasting a second as he felt the energy thunder down on the angel like a never-ceasing storm that refused to fall by the wayside, the look on his face almost giddy as the principality’s eyes shot open. 

An anguished muffled scream so glass-shatteringly shrill, unable to be contained by the properties of the muzzle echoed through the room, so agonized, unlike anything the Archangel’s ever heard. 

The little voice in the back of his head died along with his sense of morality, a new intrigue flooding his senses, towards the gasping angel below him. 

Something he couldn’t entirely describe. 

There was a certain lust that he held for that specific  _ fear _ in his eyes, the confused but visible instinctual need to run that presented itself whenever the principality eventually caught his unmerciful gaze was as addictive as any other human drug out there. 

The screaming died down, after a matter of a few minutes, until he couldn't speak, his vocal chords fried, his head bowed down low as a soundless plea for mercy. 

Only then, the messenger let go. 

Aziraphale collapsed, his bones thin, and visibly exhausted, his eyes gently closed shut as if he were trying to sleep, his wrist black and blue, as if it’d been hit repeatedly, deep lightning bolt engravings visible under his skin, crawling up his arm, purple and scarring. 

Still, despite his chronic lack of energy, the angel attempted to stagger backwards from the Archangel, his back meeting the wall as he held his numb arm by the elbow, not meeting Gabriel’s eyes.

The messenger barely noticed, his breathing slow and controlled as he made his way towards the angel, breaking his already well shattered bubble of personal space, their heated breaths nearly intertwining, their faces just barely touching, Aziraphale slipping in and out of consciousness out of his control, his breath ragged and pained like it hurt to breathe. 

Gabriel grabbed a fistful of the principality’s messy curly locks, wrenching his head upward abruptly, the already minimal wind in the angel knocked out of him, raising his unharmed arm protectively. 

The messenger could nearly smell the aromatic scent of the cozy and sweet blends of earthy tones of a bookshop off his employee under him, overpowered by the citrus lavender cologne the messenger wore. 

Snatching the angel’s risen arm, he slammed it into the wall with a loud  _ thud,  _ holding his wrist possessively, tightening his grip as a clear warning, pinning him effectively into the wall with so much pressure, he felt like they’d nearly topple through it. 

“Look at me. Now.” 

Aziraphale met the order with minimal hesitation, the principality anxiously meeting his amethyst eyes, uncertain of the fate that lay ahead of him. 

Their body heats collided, strangely intimate but without its unmistakable tension, intermingling with each other’s essences. If the angel had squirmed any more than he did, their faces would surely touch, and the messenger knew that the principality’d find that unpleasant. Gabriel’s fingers made it’s way up, clawing into the muzzle and ripping it off with a force that could rival Thor’s, the tin clattering to the ground, scraping along the tiles in an ear-bleeding screech, the angel violently flinching beneath him. His hand reached for his chin, tilting it up so that Aziraphale was forced to look up at the looming, dangerous presence above him.

“You’re one of the worst people I’ve ever met.” 

The whisper came out in a low rumbling growl, his eyes glaring daggers into the principality, as if looking at the principality caused him to feel such incredible disdain, it bordered on painful. 

“I know.” 

His hoarse response was miniscule, almost soundless, the quiver in his voice never ceasing.

“You deserve to fall, you know that?”

“I know.”

“You never deserved to be made.”

“I know.”

“That demon deserves better. Why does he even like you in the first place?”

_ “I know.”  _

His voice broke.

The look of agonized acceptance was present in the angel’s eyes, frequently blinking as if he was trying to loosen debris in his eyes, trying to stop the rapid flow of tears streaming down his rosy cheeks. 

It was almost alluring, the way he so radiantly weeped, quieting himself to the best of his ability as Gabriel sadistically watched on, savoring every moment of hiccuping pain the principality displayed, shifting in his broken corporation to find a less stinging position. To no avail. 

The principality jumped as the messenger reached up, uncharacteristically smoothing out a few loose strands of platinum blond hair as carefully and gently as he could, Gabriel’s lips pressed together in a tense thin line, the lost look on Aziraphale’s face clear as day, his eyes wide as saucers. 

The principality’s brows knitted staring up at the twisted expression the Archangel held, almost invisibly pressing himself further into the wall, as if he wished to be engulfed by the plaster, subtly writhing from Gabriel’s light touch as if it were poisonous. 

Their faces were hypnotically close, the messenger suppressing the urge to count the freckles dotted on his cheeks like stars, feeling the principality’s heated, unnerved, unyieldingly quick-paced breaths on his neck, each breath sounding like a small gasp for air, choked. 

His curls appeared snow white in heaven’s pure light, glimmering in the dazzling holy shine, his reddened, exhausted eyes still immaculately displaying the crystal blue sapphire pupils he held, ridden with sweetening terror. His palm traced to the side of the principality’s cheek, cupping the rounded soft jaw as if it were a doll’s. It had no business to feel as comfortable as it did.

“I like you.” 

The words hung in the air, low and rumbling, sounding less of a confession, and more of a command, the densely hot whisper void of compassion or traces of any empathetic qualities. 

Almost affectionately, his thumb rubbed against Aziraphale’s cheek, tracing circles into his soft, supple skin, the distrust and alarm written into the angel’s expression.

Before, he kissed him.

___________

1He never liked the elevator rides. It was entirely too claustrophobic for his liking, the smell of angelic essences too strong to let him think straight. Especially after his… disciplining, being in a flock of angels fed his panic, intrusive thoughts mainly questioning if they all  _ hated  _ him, popping up like weasels in his brain.[return to text]

2Cherubs were meant to guard Eden.[return to text]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ruh roh

**Author's Note:**

> Join [The Repossessed](https://discord.gg/avpX6ZyErh) discord server! 
> 
> I'm not too active on there, but they'd love to have newcomers! It's a discord server for all sorts of dark GO fanfiction, and other stuff. Don't worry, they don't bite.
> 
> Also, side note: Kudos are my sustenance, and comments make me squeal like a little girl on Christmas. It’s okay if you don’t give kudos, or comment, but whoever does, I actually love you now.


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